


Cowboys and Dragons

by Verlaine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, Gen, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlaine/pseuds/Verlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world ravaged by dragons, a lone rider guides refugees to safety across the plains. When she encounters three strangers on their own quest, her choices can make or break a world</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MAny thanks to my friends TF and LB. Though neither have any interest in fantasy or dragons, they read, corrected and encouraged me through the writing process. All remaining errors are mine.
> 
> My artist's drawing perfectly captures the tone I was hoping for in the story. I'm proud and grateful she chose my work for art.

[](http://s866.beta.photobucket.com/user/nahank/media/title_zps195f5e86.png.html)

_"There wasn't always dragons." The scrawny bearded man spat tobacco juice into the fire, and took a long drink from the jug cradled against his chest. "You listening to me, gal?"_

_"Yes, pa."_

_"No siree, was a time when the sky was clear. Was a time when a man could be a man. Not some yellow-belly coward hiding in the ground, shaking in his boots."_

_He lifted the jug to his lips again, and paused, eyes suddenly wide and fear-filled. "You hear something, gal?" he whispered._

_"No, pa."_

_The man rose to a crouch, his head twitching back and forth, disheveled beard and hair framing wild eyes. His frantic gaze darted back and forth across every shadowed corner of the little cave. Fine tremors gradually took over his whole body, the shuddering boney form tense as strung wire._

_The girl shrank down into the corner furthest from the fire and stayed silent, pale slitted eyes fixed on the jug in her father's trembling hand. It was a fine judgment call: if the jug dropped to the stone floor and broke, she'd get beat. If she startled him trying to save it, she'd get beat._

_Not that there was any real choice. They couldn't spare a good glass jug, even if it was too often full of rotgut whiskey._

_The shaking grew more violent, and she tensed, ready to jump to rescue the precious glassware. But her father suddenly went completely still, eyes fixed on the fire._

_"You hear that!"_

_"No, pa. There's nothing."_

_"You sure?" His free hand rose to tangle in his hair, pulling and twisting hard enough to send his head bobbing on his skinny neck. "You don't hear them?"_

_"Nothing's there, pa. Nothing to hear."_

_Slowly the tension eased out of his body, and he slumped back to the ground. The familiar expression of dull resentment slowly replaced the panic._

_"Nothing. Nothing is right." He took another drink, and took up the rambling speech once more. "Why, there was a time when a man could take a steam train clear across the country, from New York right to San Francisco. Hear those whistles come through town, and you'd know there was people traveling, going somewhere. Eating steak in the dining car. Getting real fresh bread. Drinking whiskey—real whiskey, not this white lightening." He looked down at the jug in disgust._

_"And it's all gone. They took it all away! You listening to me, gal?"_

_"Yes, pa."_

_"Huh. Was a time . . ." his voice drifted away. "Was a time." His eyes fell shut, his head sagging forward on his chest. A string of tobacco-tinged spittle ran from the corner of his mouth into his beard. The jug sank into his lap and balanced there, safe for the moment._

_The girl curled her thin arms around her legs and settled in to wait._

**

The coyote came riding down from the hills in the late afternoon, as long shadows drifted off the tail ends of the buttes, softening the harsh edges of a land baking under the lowering sun. Even though her mount was moving at a steady clip, horse and rider were almost invisible against the rocky earth. The horse was a drab dun-colored mustang, moving with a quiet sure-footed gait that raised little dust. All of the coyote's clothing—from her wide-brimmed slouch hat, through her duster and long divided riding skirt—was the same sandy grey-brown as her horse's coat. 

She was a tall woman, lanky and whipcord tough, her face lined by sun and wind. The desert had taught her silence and austerity: she talked seldom and moved with deliberation. She carried a knife in her right boot, a rifle in a scabbard on the saddle, and a mare's leg holstered at her waist.

They had left their last camp just before sunrise, to cover as much distance as possible in the coolness of the early morning. Even with a stop to shelter at a water hole during the worst of the midday heat, it had been a long day. Her shirt was damp down her back and under her breasts, her skin itched with sweat and her left leg hurt like hellfire. The horse was coated with dust, and he regularly snorted to try and clear his nostrils.

She'd doled out their water sparingly, but even so both her canteens were close to empty. Traveling the badlands in high summer was a chancy business. Over the years she'd mapped plenty of water holes and springs, but reaching one of them on any given day wasn't always guaranteed.

All in all, fairly normal for a coyote, she thought with a grim little twitch of her lips. Make your living being loco, and the loco makes its living off of you.

She pulled the horse up in a patch of shade where the trail dipped around some tall boulders, and eased her left foot out of the stirrup in a futile attempt to find a position more comfortable for the aching knee. The raw gnawing burning sometimes brought an almost irresistible impulse to scratch and rub in an attempt to soothe the unrelenting pain. She had to clench her fingers hard on the reins to stop herself from reaching down. The horse shivered at the uncoordinated tug, and she forced herself to let loose long enough to stroke his neck apologetically.

"You know better," she whispered harshly. Refusing to blink, she turned her face into the breeze to dry her eyes.

The next gust of wind held a sharp dark taint of smoke, and she froze in place, her hand tightening on the horse's reins once more. The mustang twitched his ears back sharply as if in agreement. Since he never whickered or stamped his feet or danced in place with tension, those twitching ears were as good as a full-blown fit of panic in another animal.

"What do you say? Do we take a look?" She leaned down over the horse's neck, whispering as if expecting an answer to a secret question. 

Common sense said the smart thing to do was to ride in the opposite direction as fast as she could. None of the reasons for smoke on the wind here in the open desert were good ones.

But then anyone with a lick of sense wouldn't have been riding alone in the desert in the first place. She pulled her rifle from its scabbard and automatically checked the load. 

Cautiously, she nudged the horse's ribs with her heels, willing to let his reaction be the deciding factor. For a moment, he didn't move, and then, at another nudge, continued on up the trail, following the scent of smoke.

At the top of the next rise, another rock outcrop shielded the trail down to the valley, and provided cover. She dismounted stiffly, bracing herself against the horse's shoulder as her left leg touched the ground. Teeth clenched, she held herself still against the wave of pain that rolled up her body as her leg had to take her weight again. Even though she knew it was coming, that moment always shocked her, made her feel queasy in her stomach and bowels. A harsh sound of pain escaped her despite her best effort. When her stomach was steady once more, she limped forward, rifle cocked and ready in her hands.

At the crest of the ridge, she crouched down to look out over the valley below. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and what she saw came as no real surprise.

From her vantage point she could see the sign where a dragon had made a pass over the open land: a scar of blackened earth, about two hundred yards long, sparkling in places where the dragon-fire had melted the sand to glass. The burn formed an elongated diamond shape tapering off to the north, with several small burns trailing away from the major one in a gentle curve to the northwest. 

Reaching into an inside pocket, she drew out her spyglass and pulled it open to scan the area. The burn was recent. No smoke hung in the air, so not earlier that day, but probably the day before. Along the edges of the blackened scar, bits of crisped grass and sagebrush still fluttered in the dry breeze. A hunting burn, she decided. The dragon had spotted something on the ground—an antelope, a flock of birds, maybe even a human—and descended on it. Whatever the prey, it had somehow dodged the first blast and made a run for it. 

There wasn't much doubt about what had happened in the end.

Her hand clenched on the spyglass, and she leaned back against the rock, a barely audible growl escaping her. 

Another loss to the burn.

A familiar frustration and rage rose up in her like bile, burning nearly as much as the wound on her leg. The utter unfairness of it all choked her as it did whenever she let herself think about it.

It was certainly possible to kill dragons. They were mortal, and had weaknesses, just like anything else alive. But their strengths outweighed those weaknesses by enough to tip the scales in their favor. The armies that had battled Dixie to a standstill had been no match for fire and death from the sky, and now humans ran and hid and feared the open. There were still places of safety, though fewer and fewer people found their way there. But out here in the edge of the desert, with no place to go to ground, and no rock formation big enough for shelter, the odds were not in favor of the dragon's prey.

Quietly, the coyote folded up her spyglass and stowed it away. She limped back down the trail to the horse, and rubbed his nose soothingly.

"Big lizard's gone," she murmured. "Just a scar left."

The mustang nodded his head up and down, and whickered softly into her hand. She smiled, a genuine one this time, and scratched up behind the neat dusty ears. Swinging herself into the saddle, she turned the horse and headed back down the trail. They needed to find another route to where they wanted to go. Not for anything short of imminent death was she going to ride out across the open plain and go any closer to that burn than she had to.

Fortunately, the trail forked again not too far on. One of the branches led around the valley in a southerly direction, and the coyote decided it would do. Once they hit the shelter of the buttes at the far side of the plain, she could cut back around and pick up the trail on the other side.

They wound their way cautiously along the edge of the ridges, keeping as close to the shelter of rocky outcrops as possible. Progress was slow; this area was more rugged than the way they had been following originally, and the coyote was unwilling to push her horse hard over rough ground without a damn good reason. 

An hour later, she had to admit it was time to look for shelter for the night. 

Strangely enough, given all the heat they put out themselves, dragons hunted mainly through detection of body heat. Like anyone who had to spend time out in the open, the coyote carried a roll of heat-shielding cloth strapped to her bedroll, wide enough that both she and the horse could shelter under it in desperate need. Dragons drove most animals insane with panic—it was the smell of fire and smoke, her grandmother had told her, long ago. Yet under the flimsy barrier of a shield-cloth the two of them had more than once flattened out in an arroyo, motionless, while death soared directly overhead.

They could spend the night outside if they had to. But it would be tense and sleepless for both of them, and she preferred the cover of solid rock when she could get it.

For a while, she worried that this would be one of those hard-luck nights. The hills gradually flattened out, and the lines of buttes went slowly but inexorably in the wrong direction. If she wanted to make any time at all, she was going to have to cross the open plain at some point. 

When she hit the beginning of the dry wash, she stopped to give the horse a breather. The gully was only shoulder high on the mustang, but she could see it deepening the further it went on. And it was, at least for now, headed in the right direction. She turned the horse and guided him down into the wash.

As the wash deepened into a narrow gulch, she grew more hopeful. Though the streambed was completely dry now, there were signs there had been a deep and steady flow of water at some time in the past. When the walls of the gulch reached almost three times as high as the mustang's head, she found what she was looking for. Rounding a sharp curve, the long-ago flood had eddied against one side of the cut and polished out a hollow under a shelf of sandstone. It wasn't really deep enough to be called a cave, but it was close on eight feet high, which meant she and the horse could both take shelter. 

She dismounted and peered into the hollow, making sure there were no tenants already in residence. Seeing nothing but a bare sand floor and packed earth walls, she led the horse inside. Dismounting, she untied the roll of shield-cloth from behind the saddle, and went out to take a look at how bad it was going to be.

To the right of the cave, the earth walls were close to sheer. To the left, there was a very slight incline, scattered with some rocks and withered roots that might form handholds. The coyote stood for a long moment, looking up, feeling the weight of the cloth over her shoulder and the pain radiating up and down her leg.

Ten feet.

With a sigh, she shrugged out of her duster and began to climb.

It was an exercise in slow-motion agony. She moved with care and deliberation, aware that if she slipped and fell, or even skidded down the gravelly earth, she wouldn't have it in her to try again. Every shift in weight had her heart thumping hard, a deep slow beat she could feel in her throat and in her ears. She forced herself to ignore the distance above and below her, and focus on nothing but the next handhold, the next place to wedge her foot.

When she finally dragged herself onto the sandstone shelf, she was breathing raggedly, her face wet with sweat. For long minutes she just lay on her back, staring up at the peach and gold of the evening sky, waiting for the pain in her leg to ease. Finally she pulled herself into a sitting position and looked around. A bit further down the gulch, it widened out and a small grove of cottonwoods flourished against one rock wall. Not a place she could camp—branches did nothing to conceal heat. But trees meant there might be water close by.

The shield-cloth was very light, and like everything else she owned, a dull sandy brown. She untied the roll and flipped it over the edge, keeping a secure hold on the end. To her relief, it was long enough to reach all the way to the ground below. She scrambled cautiously over the shelf and collected the largest rocks she could find to secure the cloth in place.

Getting back to the ground was even worse than the climb up, and she shuddered at the thought of having to retrieve the cloth come morning. A few feet off the ground she finally lost the struggle to keep moving slowly and slid helplessly, landing in the dirt with a jarring thump that wrung a broken cry of pain from her as her leg buckled.

The world spun and went dark at the edges.

When she was once again able to move, she hobbled the length of the opening and inspected her handiwork. To her intense relief, the shield-cloth hung all the way to the ground and closed off the little hollow under the rock from one side to the other. In the gathering dusk, its color blended in with the soil around it so well that even from a few feet away it was difficult to tell anything man-made was there.

She scooped some handfuls of sand onto the bottom of the cloth to hold it in place, and nodded with satisfaction. As much as possible, she and her mount would be safe for the night.

Not that she could have a hot meal, or even boil water to brew herself a cup of chicory. The shield-cloth could hide a human's body heat, but not a fire. No matter how carefully she smothered the ashes afterward, there was always the chance she would miss an ember. In the silent cool of a desert night, one single spot of heat would stand out like a beacon for any hunting dragon.

She chuckled grimly. "Living in a cave without a fire." It had taken so little time for humans to lose so much. 

In the quiet dusk she limped along the dry streambed to where she had spotted the cottonwoods. The trees clustered around a hollow against the wall of the gulch. The pool was also dry, the mud cracked into crumbling squares, but when she dug at a damp spot among the cottonwood roots water began to seep into the hole before she got as deep as her elbow. She tested it with a finger, and found it hard with minerals but drinkable.

Getting the water was a long slow chore, lasting until the sky was almost completely dark, with only a faint flush of purple-gold remaining to light her way. She passed the time waiting for enough water to trickle into the hole to fill her canteen leaning against a rock, watching the stars come out one by one. Being able to watch the sky never stopped being a gift, when so many nights had to be spent underground, hidden away in the dark and chill.

The horse drank five hatfuls of the painstakingly collected water, his happy snuffling making the effort all worthwhile. While he drank, she unsaddled and brushed him, hands sure and gentle in the dark as she felt for warm or tender spots along the fetlocks and knees.

When he was sated she finally drank, allowed herself all the water she wanted and then a little more, and filled both her canteens. With a last look at the stars, she retreated behind the shield-cloth and spread out her bedroll. When she sank down on the thin pad of canvas groundsheet and woolen blankets, she felt a relief so deep it was all she could do not to simply drift off into sleep. 

Another day done without harm to herself or her mount, and reasonably safe shelter for the night. There had been many worse days in her young life.

After a long time, she levered herself up and dug into her saddlebags for food. She spared another wish for a hot cup of chicory and a smoke, and settled for gnawing on a stick of antelope jerky and some stale baking powder biscuits, finishing off with a handful of dried peach slices and pine nuts, washing it all down with more of the mineral-sharp water. She spent a few minutes dreaming of cooking as she chewed: quail turning on a spit over a flame, juices hissing into the fire; johnnycake rising in the frying pan; ribs and beans simmering in a Dutch oven. It had been too long since she'd had a chance to cook a real meal or sleep in a real bed.

Or tend properly to her leg.

Rubbing her hands over her face, she forced back a shudder. The temptation to put it off until the morning was strong, and the excuses easy: it was dark in the shelter, she was tired, things would look better in the morning.

All true, and none the real reason. 

With a sigh, she pulled the canvas of her riding skirt up to her thighs. Under the wide sweep of fabric she wore a man's cotton union suit, with the area around the knee cut away. A light brace made of strips of rawhide and curved willow branches supported the knee, holding it slightly bent, and kept her clothing from touching the skin. Steady-handed even in the pitch dark, she undid the straps, careful not to touch the damaged flesh the brace protected. 

Despite the constant pain, it was a relief to be free of the rigid framework and feel cooler air against her skin. She straightened her leg cautiously, wincing at the pull of cramped and damaged muscles. Wetting a rag, she wiped her leg down, cleaning off the sweat and dust and the crusted oozing fluid that leaked from the wound. Finally she found the small tin of ointment in her saddlebag, and rubbed it into the skin where the brace normally lay, feeling with her fingertips for any sign of chafing or blisters. 

With a shudder, she forced herself to hold her fingertips just above the wound itself. Heat radiated from it, enough that she could feel it from at least an inch above the skin. The one small mercy about a dragon burn: no corruption could survive in the heat, which meant no infection.

Be grateful for small blessings, she thought. A gunshot would have putrefied and killed you a long time ago.

She tucked the skirt and blankets carefully around her leg to leave the knee out in the open, and laid back to wait for sleep.

During the night she came awake once, the darkness around her utterly, unnaturally silent. She stretched out one hand to cover the horse's nose gently, but otherwise did not move. After a few minutes she caught the sound of huge wings high overhead. A dragon, out on a night hunt. In her mind's eye she could see it: the long narrow head on the sinuous neck, scaled wings gleaming under the starlight and reflecting flashes of odd, unearthly colors. She could almost imagine she was feeling the pressure wave of each massive wingbeat ripple across her skin. She and the horse both remained still, the only movement the soft damp of the mustang's breath against her palm. The wings didn't hesitate but kept on, measured beats fading into the distance.

The desert night slowly began to come alive again around her. First one cricket chirped, then another. An owl hooted softly, questioningly, and was answered by another further down the gulch. Tiny rapid footsteps skittered by, as some rodent ventured out of its burrow.

The dragon had come and gone.

She gave the horse's nose one final pat, and rolled over and slept.

**

_"Grammy, why can't I go outside with Zeke and Frank?"_

_The old woman didn't pause in her kneading, slapping the dough down hard on the flat stone and rocking the heels of her hands back and forth on it. A lock of grey hair had come loose from her braid and swayed back and forth as she moved. To the girl, it looked like a wing, beating in time to the kneading._

_"You know why, Janey. The dragons can catch you when you're out there. We're safe here underground."_

_"But Zeke and his pa go out all the time. And so does Mr. Wilbur."_

_"Men don't have the sense God gave wild turkeys. They're riskin' themselves trying to change things that can't be changed."_

_"But Zeke says Mr. Wilbur is studying on dragons. He's looking to find a way to fight them, so we don't have to stay down here no more. He says if we all helped, it would go faster."_

_"You hush now about Ezekiel Lyons. You hear me? That boy's bound to follow his pa outside once too often and get his fool self eaten. There's nothing to be done about the dragons. If Ulysses S. Grant his own self couldn't stand up to them, you think the likes of Jack Lyons and Wilbur Wright can do any better? Governor ought to put his foot down, keep them fool men from wasting any more time they could be working to make things better inside."_

_The woman pushed the mound of dough across the stone._

_"Here. Put yourself to work and stop your squawking."_

_"Yes, grammy."_

_The girl swiped her hands through the crock of cornmeal and began to knead. The old woman took down a bowl of grease from the shelf behind her and rubbed the baking pans lined up near the stove._

_They worked together in silence for a few minutes, then Jane burst out,_

_"Did Pa ever go outside?"_

_The old woman set the baking pan in her hands down very gently. "Your ma put a stop to that." Her voice was frayed and weary._

_"Zeke says Pa ain't any help 'cause he's a coward."_

_The old woman's hand moved so fast Jane never saw it. She felt a hard thump on the side of her head, and a scalding ache across her face. Everything around her tilted dizzily. It took her a moment after she opened her eyes to realize her grandmother had hit her so hard she'd fallen off her stool._

_"I never want to hear that word out of you again." The old woman was looking down at her with an expression of anger so cold it made Jane's chest seize up. "Your pa's done the best he can. We lost your ma, and I'm not losing anybody else in my family to those lizards. Folks can chatter all they want, and it don't change a thing. Now get up and do your chores."_

_Jane scrambled to her feet, wiping at the blood dripping from her nose, and ran, ignoring her grandmother's shouts behind her._

**

Two days later, the coyote drew to a halt on the east bank of the Pecos River. It was the first free-running water she'd seen in days, and she paused to let the mustang drink his fill and splash and blow noisily in the water. Tough as he was, the trek across the desert had been hard on him, and she promised herself that when she finally got paid for this job he would get good feed and water even before she bought anything for herself.

She took her bearings by the sun and her compass, then drew a rolled-up map from the pocket of her duster. Studying the map and directions, she decided she'd done a pretty neat job of navigation. Despite the detour due to the dragon burn, she'd come out almost exactly where she should have. 

She turned the horse west, and began keeping an eye out for landmarks. The terrain offered little in the way of shelter, not if she wanted to stick by the river, and she became ever more still and watchful, constantly scanning the horizon for the first sight or sound of dragon wings. 

They rode on for almost an hour before the horse suddenly halted, ears flicking back and nostrils flared. The coyote sniffed too, and grimaced. The smell was unmistakable: badly dug latrines, and frightened animals and—wood smoke? 

She shook her head with a scowl. Every refugee camp seemed to have that same stink of despair and lack of sense.

Rubbing the horse's neck soothingly, she hummed a wordless reassurance. When the mustang's ears relaxed, she touched his sides lightly with her heels. They turned away from the river, in the direction of the smell.

It took only a few minutes to reach the next ridge. A game trail twisted up the slope, and there were signs of shod horses passing back and forth, and human footprints. She let the horse pick his way up at his own pace, and drew to a halt only when the shelter of a juniper thicket shielded them on the ridgeline.

She took in her surroundings, letting her eyes pass without interest over an unnatural pile of boulders and juniper scrub near the trail, and keeping the horse's rein tight. 

In the valley, the refugees had set up camp in the remains of an abandoned ranch. Looking down on the homestead, she could see the main house, a bunkhouse, a barn and several sheds and lean-tos, grouped in a rough half-circle around the remains of a corral. The corral fence was mostly burned away, the earth where the animals had once been penned a glossy fused mass that looked almost liquid in the sunshine. There were scorch marks on the bunkhouse, and judging by the outline of burned bricks there had once been a second barn, but other than that, the place looked intact.

A typical lone hunting attack, she thought. Dragons killed what they ate, but seemed to have no interest in destruction for its own sake. 

Looking more closely, she could see that swatches of shield-cloth had been thrown over the roofs of the sheds and the bunkhouse, but there wasn't enough to cover any of the buildings right to the ground. She had a grim vision of the hapless refugees crowding into the bunkhouse, assuming they were shielded from dragon-view, right up until the moment the burn hit.

As in so many camps she'd seen, the best building had been converted into a saloon. A crooked piece of board nailed over the door of the main house had been painted to read "Drinks. Gambling. Women." She shook her head in disgust. Families might shelter in shacks of wood and canvas and scrap, but the saloon always had a roof.

The coyote sighed, and the mustang whickered very softly, ears lying back almost to its head.

Time to take care of her first problem.

"You can come out from there now, boy." She eased back in the saddle and finally looked straight at the pile of boulders and scrub. "I ain't here to do any harm."

There was no response.

"You won't like it if I have to come and get you." Reaching inside her duster, she drew out a battered brown cigarillo and lit it, sucking in a lungful of pungent smoke with appreciation. With all the heat the camp was giving off, one lone cigar wouldn't make any difference.

Another long moment of silence, and just when she thought she would actually have to do something, the juniper rustled and shook, and a kid popped partly out of hiding, leveling an ancient pistol at her.

The gun looked battered, and poorly cared for, and the coyote bit back a grimace. The boy wore threadbare bib overalls and a faded flannel shirt, both dirty and neither fitting him well. A scruff of blond beard covered his cheeks and chin, and the hand holding the gun was grey with ground in dirt.

Careless, all of them, she thought grimly. Dangerously careless. If they can't make it worth my while . . .

"Who are you and what're you doing here?" the kid demanded, gesturing widely with the gun barrel.

"You folks sent word you need a coyote to get you out of here and guide you somewhere safe. That would be me." She took another deep drag on her cigarillo, observing the kid from under the shade of her hat brim.

"You? A coyote," the kid said, disbelief in every syllable. "Lady, who you think you're funnin' here?" He snorted an ugly little laugh. "Coyote."

"Take me to your ramrod, then. I got no time to waste on boys with guns." She let a touch of dry impatience creep into her tone.

The boy laughed again. "Reckon I might want to have a little fun first." He made an obscene gesture with the hand not holding the gun. "Might want to have first claim on that broomtail of your'n too. You won't be needing it no more." 

The coyote nudged the horse gently with one heel, and tugged on the opposite rein. The mustang turned slightly, prancing in place and tossing his head. The kid stepped completely out of cover, his gun lowering as he watched her, a broad grin on his face.

"Whoo-hoo! Ride 'em!" he yelped gleefully.

Another light touch of her heel had the horse moving, even as she drew the mare's leg from under her duster in one fluid move. The gun butt cracked the kid solidly in the forehead as the horse wheeled past him. He toppled backward to lie sprawled in the dust.

The coyote watched for a moment, but his eyes remained closed and he didn't so much as twitch a finger. With a smirk, she rode past him down the trail.

As she drew closer to the buildings, she could see how time and neglect had worn them down. The barn was missing boards, and several of the sheds were one step from sliding sideways to the ground. And except for throwing the shield-cloth up, the refugees had done little to improve their conditions.

On the sway-backed porch at the front of the ranch house, under the portion of the sign reading "Drinks", three men sat, their feet up on the remnants of the porch rail. One, a tall bearded man with shoulders like a blacksmith's, occupied a rocking chair. A younger man with long tangled red hair slouched on a stool, and the third squatted on a thick block of wood with a piece of broken fencing nailed to it for a backrest. All of them were armed, and from what she could tell, as dirty as their lookout up on the trail.

The three of them watched her steadily as she drew the horse to a halt at the well beside the remains of the corral. She slid out of the saddle, focusing on making every movement slow and easy, giving no sign whatever of the damaged knee. Judging by what she'd seen so far, these people were unfriendly and slipshod. It was no place to show weakness.

We can always keep riding, she reminded herself. I need money, but not that bad.

The bucket at the wellhead had a broad patch of char on one side, but the rope looked close to new and serviceable enough. She ran the bucket down until she heard a faint splash, and reeled it back up. A bit to her surprise, the water was both clear and cold. She scooped out a dipper for herself and set the bucket down by the horse's nose.

"Hey there, stranger!"

The coyote turned. The redhead rose to his feet and leaned his elbows on the porch rail.

"Water ain't free here, y'know." His voice held a tone of sneering amusement that set her teeth on edge.

"That don't sound real neighborly to me," the coyote said evenly. She pushed her hat back, letting the motion swing her duster open slightly so the mare's leg in its holster was plainly visible. Whatever the hardships, it was rare for people to begrudge water in the desert. "Me and the horse came a long way today."

The redhead spread his hands wide. "We're poor folks here. We need everything we can scrape up to keep body and soul together, what with bein' on the run from dragons." 

"Been out here long?" 

"Yup." The broad-shouldered man lumbered to his feet and stood, head cocked to one side. "Purt near three months, close as I can figure. We got burned out of El Paso in spring, spent a while just moving any which way to try and throw 'em off our trail."

The coyote nodded at the sign. "You got anything else in there worth drinking?" 

"Tequila. Whiskey. Beer."

"And the water?"

"Same price as tequila."

"Well, then, I guess I'll take tequila." She set the bucket down in front of the horse, and ambled across the dusty yard to the steps.

"Not so fast, missy." The redhead blocked the stairs, smiling down at her with large brown teeth. "You got any way to pay for that water?"

"Unless you're the barkeep, that ain't your concern." The coyote returned his calculating smile. "Now do I get my drink, or do I keep riding?"

The redhead held her stare for a long moment, and then moved aside. "Welcome to Rancho Diablo."

What had formerly been the main room of the ranch house had been transformed into a makeshift saloon. A couple of trestle tables at the back made up the bar, with shelves behind them holding a collection of bottles, jugs and crocks. Several smaller tables were scattered around, with mismatched chairs, stools and blocks of wood for seating. Despite it being full daylight, the shield-cloth over the windows made the interior dim enough to require several kerosene lamps. The place stank of unwashed clothing, raw alcohol and stale smoke.

The coyote's eyes swept the room in a swift assessment. At one table, three middle-aged men, dressed in town clothing much the worse for wear, huddled over shot glasses of some dark liquor. Four others, of the same type as the three from the porch, were lined up at the bar, a crock of something passing among them. Two women, one barely into her teens, sat on the bar, snuggling up to the men in front of them. She was mildly surprised to see a battered piano in one corner; a woman dressed only in a faded green petticoat sat on the piano stool picking out a song with painful concentration. The man leaning against the piano beside her kept running his hand back and forth over her shoulders, oblivious to her shivering or to the bruises on her back.

It was another group near one of the windows that caught her attention: Two middle-aged men and a young one sat somewhat apart from the rest, a bottle on the table between them. The young man and one of the older ones had the bearing and alertness she had come to associate with soldiers. But what made her pause to give them a second glance was that, of all the men in the room, they were the only ones who were clean. Though their clothes were the same motley assortment everyone else wore, none of it looked stiff enough with dirt to stand on its own.

The older soldier noticed her watching, and leaned forward to speak quietly to his companions. As he did so, he deliberately slouched down, his shoulders losing the square set that had given him away.

The coyote shrugged and turned away. Army deserters weren't her business.

"Hey, Lucas!" The redhead bellowed from behind her. "Pour the little lady here a tequila!"

The bartender looked her up and down. "You got a way to pay for it?" he asked, enfolding the older woman on the bar in one brawny arm. "Nothing comes cheap here."

The coyote reached inside her duster and set a silver dollar on the bar. "Water for my horse, drinks for the house."

"Now that's what I call neighborly," the bartender said with a wide grin. He shoved several smudged glasses across the bar, and poured shots of a clear liquid from an earthenware jug.

The redhead picked one up and saluted her. "Cheers," he said, and downed the contents, slamming the glass back in front of the bartender, who obligingly refilled it.

The coyote picked up her own glass, wincing a bit at the smell of raw alcohol. "Your health, gentlemen." She raised the glass to her lips, but didn't swallow. 

"Much obliged," the redhead said, taking a more moderate sip of his second drink. "The name's Elmore Ross. You might say I'm ramroddin' this here bunch. You have a name, missy?"

The coyote hesitated. Something about these people had made the hair on the back of her neck prickle up from the moment she rode into the compound. She fingered the map in her pocket, wondering if anything in the scrawled note on the back of it was true at all. Still, her name was part of her stock in trade. 

"Jane Black, at your service."

There was a moment of silence in the room, then a sudden squeaking sound came from the young girl up on the bar. "You're Carbon Jane." Her voice was filled with awe.

"No, ma'am." Jane raised her voice a little. "Carbon Jane's a legend. Somebody people tell tall tales about round the campfire to make the night go a little easier."

The bartender shook his head, and wagged one dirty finger at her. "Uh-uh-uh. I heard tell about you. You killed two dragons outside of Tucson last year."

"Now that is purely a lie, sir. I wasn't anywhere near Tucson last year."

Ross took control of the conversation again. "But you are a coyote. That part of the story is true?"

"That's what some call me."

Ross settled himself at one of the tables, legs spread lazily on the floor. "And what kind of business brings Carbon Jane to these parts?" 

"I'm looking for Franklin Douglas. He's a marshal down El Paso way." 

Silence spread through the room like ripples from a stone dropped into deep water. Even the woman plinking at the piano stopped, hands frozen over the keyboard.

"We're a long way out of El Paso." Ross's grin was predatory.

"A marshal covers a lot of territory," Jane replied. Her hand crept under her duster again, touching the butt of the mare's leg for reassurance. 

"And what would you be wantin' with ol' Frank, hmm?"

"Marshal Douglas sent word up to Carlsbad there'd been a dragon burn. He didn't think it was safe to stay put any more and asked for help getting his people across the badlands. Folks at Carlsbad sent me."

Ross sighed. "Well, sorry to say, but Marshal Douglas is dead. He took a burn not long after we left El Paso. Outside of Tascosa, weren't it, Lucas?" he called to the bartender.

"Yep." The bartender spat a wad of something black at the floor. 

Jane took a deep breath, feeling her gut go ice-cold.

"He have a segundo?" 

The bearded man from the porch spoke for the first time, his voice a dusty rumble. "Deputy decided he wasn't up for taking on a dragon by hisself. Tried to run off. So we shot him." He smirked and made a gun-cocking gesture with thumb and forefinger.

"You'd have done better shooting the dragon," Jane said, making no attempt to keep the contempt out of her voice.

One of the townsmen suddenly lurched to his feet, eyes wide with a desperate mix of fear and hope. "You could get us out of this hell-hole?" he demanded. His companions pulled urgently at his arm, but he shook them off. 

One of the men at the bar started forward, an ugly look on his face. "Siddown, doc," he growled.

The townsman paled, but stayed on his feet, looking at Jane beseechingly. "You could get us to Carlsbad? To real shelter?"

"For a price, doc," Ross said, turning a hard look on the man. "There's always a price. Ain't that right, coyote?"

Jane nodded. "If you're the ramrod here, then you and me need to talk some business." She set her glass down opposite Ross and sat, making sure to angle her chair so nobody was behind her.

Doc was still on his feet. "What kind of price are we talking about? We've got nothing left since—"

"Quiet down, Anson," Ross growled. 

"For God's sake, Ross! There's women and children here! We've got no shield-cloth, we're running out of supplies—what are you and your boys going to do if a dragon shows up?"

"I said, quiet down!" Ross slammed his hand down on the table. The men at the bar all turned, hands dropping to their guns. "We're talking business over here. If it's your business, I'll tell you. Until then, squat down and shut up!"

Doc Anson subsided. Jane could see his hands trembling as he picked up his glass. 

"Now, where were we?" Ross bared dank brown teeth at her in what she supposed he figured was a friendly smile.

"Business," Jane said grimly. "If you folks want to go to Carlsbad, I'll guide you there. It's the closest refuge, and the biggest one."

"You've stood dragon attacks?"

"Yep. But no dragon has ever made it inside, and the caves are deep enough, nothing they do outside can harm folks."

"What if'n we want to go someplace else?"

Jane raised her glass and pretended to sip while she considered the question. "You're short on choices, Mr. Ross," she said eventually. "We could try making for the coast, but since Galveston got burned, there's not many places boats come ashore regular any more. There's some refuge caves in the mountains, but most won't take a passel of strangers with nobody to vouch for them."

Ross leaned forward eagerly. "But Carlsbad will?"

"If you're willing to work and fight dragons, they'll take you."

"And how much are you asking?"

"Food on the trail. Ammunition if I need it. If my horse goes lame, somebody to doctor him. When we make it to Carlsbad, it'll be ten dollars a head. In gold, silver or bullets, your choice."

"Ten dollars? Kind of steep, I reckon."

"If'n you want to try crossing the badlands on your own, be my guest." Jane pushed her chair back.

Ross hastily raised a hand. "Hold on, hold on. Not saying we can't come to an agreement. But like I said, we're poor folks. We've been on the run for months. We'll need everything we can scrape together to get ourselves settled in Carlsbad."

"But you won't get there without me," she pointed out. "And for poor folks, I see an awful lot of likker in the bar here."

"It's easy enough to make, and it's good for trade. Lucas there," he jerked a thumb back at the bar, "has pulled us out of more than one tight spot with his whiskey. I'm betting you won't get better in Carlsbad."

Jane nodded abruptly. "Get your people together. I need to see what I'm dealing with before I take you on."

**

_"Evening, Mr. Wilbur." Jane hovered at the entrance to the huge workshop, fascinated as always by the mechanical devices that covered the worktables, and above all, by the huge arched wing suspended from the ceiling by ropes and pulleys._

_"Good evening, Miss Jane." The tall thin man looked up from his cluttered workbench with a smile, waving her over. "By all means, come in."_

_“Gram says I ain’t to be a nuisance.”_

_Wilbur smiled gently. "You’re no nuisance, Miss Jane. I enjoy your enthusiasm for my work. Not everyone is as patient with an inventor."_

_Jane skipped over to hoist herself onto the end of the bench. "Will your flying machine be ready soon?"_

_"We're doing well, quite well. The wings are coming along better than I'd hoped. Another week of work and we might be able to risk a test flight."_

_"Wouldn't it be easier sending up a dirigible? Instead of building all these bits and pieces?"_

_Wilbur shook his head. "A dirigible isn't fast enough, nor maneuverable enough." At Jane's puzzled look, he added, "Balloons can travel only where they are driven with the wind. They can't rise or fall fast enough, or change direction on the wing, the way a dragon can. What we need to match the dragons is something that can fly under its own power, just the way they do."_

_"Will that engine of yourn do it?"_

_Wilbur looked down at the device on the bench in front of him. "If there’s enough fuel, please God, it will."_

_"Can I ride in one, Mr. Wilbur? Me an' Zeke an' Frank?"_

_"You’re too—" Wilbur paused, then continued more carefully "—small, all of you. It'll take a man’s size and strength to handle one of these flying machines. If it even will fly. Ah, Jane, what I'd give to be able to work outside, on the ground and in the sky, before we must put her to the test."_

_"When we grow up then?" Jane pressed._

_"When you grow up, child," Wilbur echoed, his voice bleak. "For now, you can make yourself useful on the ground." He handed her a roll of stiff cloth. "You may fold this for the aileron, if you like."_

_Jane accepted the cloth and began unrolling it. Wilbur turned back to his engine and the two worked in companionable silence._

**

As Ross and his men herded the refugee group out into the open, Jane stood on the porch steps and took a quick head count. Her already strong sense of unease deepened. Fifty-three wasn't the largest group she'd ever dealt with, but there were a surprisingly large number of women and children. Besides the three deserters and the three townsmen from the barroom, there were only another dozen men who clearly weren't part of Ross's gang. Both men and women were ragged and hollow-eyed, the children clinging to their mothers and unnaturally silent. Some of the women had fresh or fading bruises on their faces and arms, and one girl had a vicious bite visible on her neck just above the ragged collar of her blouse.

Jane leaned against the porch rail and kept her face expressionless, making sure her duster was out of the way in case she needed her weapon. Nothing she saw was a surprise. Ross and his men were typical frontier outlaws, ready to take advantage of any situation; the only question was if they had ambushed the townsfolk before or after the dragon attack. With the advent of the dragons, lawlessness had flourished among people abandoned by any form of authority except the power of the gun.

Ross joined her on the top porch step and whistled sharply between his teeth. Carefully blank faces turned as one to look up at him. He waved in Jane's direction.

"Folks, this here is Carbon Jane. She's going to take us up to Carlsbad, somewhere we can hold off the dragons." He turned a slight smirk on Jane. "Folks up in Carlsbad should be right pleased to see us."

There was a long silence.

"Ain't that nice?" Ross hollered. 

No one responded.

"I said, ain't that nice?" His hand dropped to his holster. 

A low muttering swept through the crowd, and a few weak echoes of, "Yeah, real nice," sounded out. None of the townsfolk met his eyes.

"They’ll take us all in?" a voice called from somewhere in the crowd.

Jane stepped forward. "Anyone who'll work or fight. Carlsbad needs farmers, hunters, anything a regular town needs. There's plenty of room, and if you pull your weight, you'll be welcome."

"Can we make it?" A different voice this time, sounding more eager and less afraid.

"If you listen to me, and do as you're told, we stand a chance. Better than you have staying here." She turned to Ross. "These folks got enough horses?"

He shrugged. "Families can ride double." At Jane's frown, he laughed shortly. "Hell, it ain't like you can outrun a dragon. We need to, we'll leave some behind."

Jane couldn't help the slight jerk of her shoulders, and cursed herself as Ross smiled knowingly. She forced herself to shrug.

"Suit yourself," she said blandly. "But don't expect me to mix in your business if it goes sour. What about weapons?"

"I reckon those of us that need 'em, have 'em." 

"Fair enough." Jane looked out across the crowd, seeing an equal mixture of hope and despair on most faces. Ross and his men all wore looks of sly anticipation. And at the back of the crowd, the three deserters looked—

Jane wasn’t sure what that look was. 

She raised her voice. "All right, folks. We'll leave at first light. Pack food, water and ammunition. Nothing else is worth carrying. See to your horses and gear, and get a good night's sleep. Last thing we do before we leave is strip all the shield-cloth, so have rope ready, and room on the horses to tie it. Once we start moving, we'll be traveling fast."

"You heard the woman," Ross called. "Go on, and get yourselves ready. We won't wait for stragglers come morning."

Slowly, muttering among themselves, the townsfolk headed back to the barn and bunkhouse, throwing nervous looks back at Ross and Jane over their shoulders. A couple of the outlaws cut into the crowd and gathered up several women, pulling them back in the direction of the saloon. Jane noted that though the women looked frightened and miserable, none of them protested.

"Have another drink?" Ross asked.

Jane shook her head. "I need to see to my horse. And I want to scout the trail a ways."

"Suit yourself." Ross grabbed the arm of one of the women being herded past him. "There's ways to pass the time." He tugged her after him into the building.

Jane went down the steps slowly and sauntered back to the well, where the mustang stood waiting patiently. She petted the horse absently, and drew him another bucket of water, thinking hard as she did. The journey through the badlands to Carlsbad would be an ordeal for the women and children, especially since she guessed Ross and his men would high-grade any supplies of food and water for themselves. And she was sure Ross hadn't made an idle threat about abandoning those who couldn't keep up. 

Keeping as many alive as possible would be a challenge under the best of circumstances. Her only advantage was that Ross's plan was so obviously to use the beaten-down townsfolk as a shield to get himself and his men into Carlsbad. It might go against the grain, but it was in his interest to keep the refugees alive.

Jane smiled grimly. Carlsbad might come as a surprise.

Moving carefully, she flexed her knee under cover of returning the bucket to the well. The damaged leg had stood up well so far, and knowing the type of men she had to deal with, she was determined to hide her injury as long as possible. It wouldn't take much to tempt Ross and his men to treat her like the other helpless women they preyed on. 

She followed her nose to the rear of the barn, where she found the camp's horses tethered under cover. The horses actually seemed in better shape than most of the people she'd seen, well fed and decently shod. As she bent down to inspect the hooves of a rangy chestnut, she caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye in the shadows of the barn. She turned to see the woman in the green petticoat from the saloon peering at her cautiously around the edge of a stall.

"Miss Black?" she said softly. "Can I speak to you?"

Jane nodded and the woman crept out of the shelter. Close on, Jane could see she would have been attractive, if one eye had not been blackened, and her mouth swollen and distorted with bruising. Her dark hair was loose and tangled, and the wrapper she'd pulled on over the petticoat was torn along the seams. 

"Ma'am," Jane said quietly. "Are you all right?"

The woman made a face and grimaced, waving the question aside. "I'll make do. I'm not the worst one hurt." Her eyes held Jane's with desolate strength. "Are you here to help us?"

"I'm here to guide you to Carlsbad. That's what I do, that's what I'll be paid for."

"You see what Ross and his men are like. You can't take them to another town, let them do what they did to us."

"And so you think I should tangle with them myself? Your menfolk didn't do so well, did they?"

The woman's face went pale. "I don't know why I hoped for better from you." She hesitated, then said bleakly, "I'm Sarah Douglas. Frank was my husband."

Jane shifted awkwardly, tempted to pull off her hat like a stumbling cowpoke. "Mrs. Douglas. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Frank spoke of you often." Sarah Douglas's swollen mouth was a bitter line. "I never thought I'd see one of my husband's ghosts in the flesh."

Jane swallowed thickly. "I haven't set eyes on Frank since his father drove me out of my home. And I don't intend to get killed trying to prove I was worthy of his regard—or yours."

"You're a hard woman, Carbon Jane."

"Dragons are hard." Jane looked to the shadows of the barn. "Can I get in there? Talk to the rest of them?"

Sarah smiled sourly. "Now why would you want to do that? Since you aren't going to get killed for anyone."

"I need information I can trust," Jane said flatly.

Sarah looked down. "I suppose I deserve that. Come on."

She led Jane past the stall and squeezed ahead of her through a gap between two boards. In the main section of the barn, a group of men and women were packing satchels and saddlebags, dividing up piles of belongings and setting aside what they could discard. 

On seeing Jane and Sarah, the townsfolk one by one set down their belongings and gathered around, guarded and silent. Jane noted that the women made a point of pulling their skirts away from Sarah Douglas as they neared her.

It was Doc Anson who finally spoke. "Did Ross send you?"

"No." Jane looked around at the group, trying to read them. "I need to know what I'm dealing with. Who are these men, and what really happened?"

People looked at each other, uneasy as spooked horses, but none of them spoke.

"Look, anybody can see Ross and his boys are sidewinders," Jane said. "If I'm going to be on the trail with them, I need to know if I'm likely to get bushwhacked."

An older woman gestured to Sarah. "And she'll go running right back to him with every word we say." 

"It don't matter if she does. Right now, Ross needs me. Can he keep his men on a short rein? Or will I have to watch my back all the time?"

"You best sleep with both eyes open." That was a younger woman, another with the remnants of bruises on her face. "Or get on your nag and ride—"

"Provided Ross lets her," the older woman broke in. "You're in deep, missy, make no mistake."

Jane rubbed a hand over her eyes. "You think this is the first gang of owlhoots I've tangled with? I ride the badlands; you don't survive there being slow or stupid. "

There was another long silence, then Doc Anson spoke up. "Frank Douglas was our marshal, and a good one. El Paso was safe for a long time, and I guess we got complacent. When the dragons burned us out, he sent for help, but he figured in the meantime we'd be safer if we could make it away from town. He thought if we could get out into the badlands we could shelter in the hills until someone like you came to get us.

"We hadn't been in the desert for a week before Ross and his gang jumped us. They killed Frank and his deputy, couple of the other men who fought back. But then Mr. Allen, the banker, told them Frank had sent for help. They made him tell us where the meeting point was supposed to be, and dragged us all here. We've been waiting ever since."

"They've taken all our money, all our goods," the older woman who had spoken first said. "Outraged any woman they want." She broke off, covering her face with her hands. Doc put an arm around her, and smoothed her hair, murmuring softly.

"Her daughter fought back, and so they shot her little girl dead, right in front of us all," Doc Anson said softly.

"And this slut—" another girl blazed "—goes to them willing!" She spat at Sarah.

"At least I'm not dead! Or beaten like a stray dog," Sarah snarled back. "Me and my boy get fed, and I don't need to fear they'll use him for target practice just to amuse themselves."

The women burst out in a furious babble of angry accusations and counter-claims, until Jane clapped her hands sharply.

"Quiet," she said firmly. "Why is Ross still here? Why didn't he just take what he wants from you and go? He can't really think he'll just walk into Carlsbad and take over."

"That would be my doing," Sarah said. "I told him about you. About Frank. Told him you had no reason not to turn on the folks in Carlsbad if the price was right."

"Really?" Jane began to laugh, a low chuckle that held very little humor. "I like the way you think, ma'am."

"You can't trust her!" Doc burst out. "She took up with her husband's murderer before his blood dried on the ground."

"Makes no nevermind." Jane laughed again. "Ross isn't the first to try something like this. That's what Carlsbad has a gallows for."

**

_"The girl will have to go." Alderman Douglas loomed over both Jane and her grandmother, making the small cave they called home look even smaller as his shadow dimmed the lamplight. "She's fifteen now, and it's past time she's gone. I've only stayed my hand out of respect for you, Emmaline."_

_"I won't have it!" The old woman faced him toe to toe, not backing down despite his advantage in both height and age. "You can't just throw my granddaughter out into the badlands, Roy Douglas! There's still law here, even if we're living like rats in a cave!"_

_"Are you sure you want to bring in the law?" Douglas demanded. "You're part of that cursed family too. And you've never once hung your head in proper shame."_

_"Luther Black was my brother-in-law, no blood kin of mine. And I've raised Jane to be a good strong girl, who can carry her weight. You can't afford to lose a healthy breeding girl just because of her kin. Her grandfather, who she never even knew!"_

_"The taint of guilt lasts unto the seventh generation, says the Good Book. Look at her! Her grandfather, meddling in unholy things. Her father, a drunkard and a burden to the community. And her—going outside in the company of young men, wearing trousers—who knows what she'll get up to?"_

_"You mean who knows what Frank will get up to?" Emmaline retorted. "You'd best keep a halter on your own boy if you're so worried, and leave my girl alone."_

_"My boy will do as he's told," Douglas grated out. "I want her gone before she leads him on the way she did Zeke Lowry. And look what happened to him."_

_"If you want to blame anybody for what happened to Zeke, blame Wilbur Wright! Him and his crazy flying machines!"_

_"Gram, please," Jane spoke up for the first time. "Mr. Wilbur ain't to blame. He's an inventor!"_

_"_ Mr. Wilbur _is a loco old coot who thinks he can fly!" Douglas snarled at her. "The matter's been decided, Emmaline. Three days from now, Jane Black goes out the entrance, and she doesn't come back. Keep arguing, and you can go with her."_

_Emmaline drew back, her face visibly pale even in the dim light. "Damn you."_

_In the silence, Jane's quiet laughter seemed to echo unnaturally._

_"Gram. It's all right."_

_"It's not right." The old woman wrung her hands helplessly. "Sending you into the badlands like some Judas goat because of your blood kin—"_

_"Grandma Em. That ain't it, and you know it." Jane turned to Douglas, her eyes flinty. "I'll go. On two conditions."_

_"You're in no position to dictate terms, girl," Douglas snapped._

_"You'll like these," she said, with a hard smile. "I want ammunition. As much as I can carry. And I want my horse."_

_The smile Douglas gave her was equally hard. "And why should you get anything but the clothes you stand up in?"_

_"Because I'm going out there to kill dragons."_

**

Jane drifted back to the refugee camp just past sunset. 

After her talk with the townsfolk, she stabled her horse and brushed him down. Satisfied she'd seen to his comfort as much as she could, she'd headed on foot up into the ridges above the ranch, taking a broken pitchfork handle with her as a walking stick. Even the short amount of time she'd spent in the refugee camp had given her a headache. With days of strain and watchfulness ahead of her, she chose to hunt up some peace and quiet to fortify herself.

For an hour or more, she ambled along the game trails that switch-backed through the hills, noting the hoof-prints of horses and the criss-cross of animal tracks in the dirt. Ross and his men must have been out hunting occasionally, though judging by the tracks the pickings had been slim. 

Finally, Jane found a patch of shade under some boulders on a slope and settled herself comfortably against the cool stone. She sipped from her canteen and watched the hawks circling and swooping above, loosing herself in the play of sun and cloud and wind. Her knee ached dully, but she was unwilling to expose it, even here where she was almost certainly alone. There was a weariness deep in her bones that not even the clarity of open sky and clean air could ease. It would be easy to fall asleep cradled in the warm embrace of the land, and just forget to wake up again.

A good day for dragons, she thought. The heat would draw them out and the strong rising thermals would keep them soaring, covering miles of sky with lazy beats of their great wings. Their scales would glitter in the sunshine, throwing off rainbow sparks of light visible for miles as they glided through the air. It was only when they hovered in place that the jet-black underside of the wings and tail were visible, looking like pieces of night cut out of the blue of the sky. 

The sky had been that same deep cobalt shade the day they'd pulled Wilbur Wright's flying machine out in the open, ready to try to battle dragons on their own ground. 

Jane shivered despite the heat, and tucked her hands into the pockets of her duster. Those were days she tried never to think of. She turned her eyes back to the soaring hawks and let her mind move in open lazy circles along with them.

Ross and his men would be easy to deal with. Greed might make them vicious, but it also blinded them to what she really was.

But those army deserters—there was something about them that brought Jane's sense of danger to high alert. They weren't normal outlaws, of that she was certain.

Sleep with both eyes open, she thought. And a shooting iron for a pillow.

When the sun sank past the far ridgeline, Jane pulled herself up and meandered back down to the camp. She would collect her horse, she decided, and they'd spend the night out on the hillside, away from the buildings. A few days on the trail and she'd have more than a bellyful of Ross and his men.

As she passed by one of the lean-tos, a sudden noise caught her attention, and she froze. It sounded a bit like the chime of a clock, though not as rhythmic, and was hastily muffled, as if someone had thrown a cloth over it.

"Sorry, sir," came a low voice from inside. "I though I'd switched it off."

"Keep it off, sergeant." That voice held an unmistakable tone of command, as well as some unwilling amusement. "We couldn't explain _that_ by saying we're from back east."

Jane took a deep silent breath and drifted closer. Earlier on, she'd been careful not to express any interest in the army men, either to Ross or to the townsfolk. The unease she felt about them made her willing to take a chance to eavesdrop.

"We can't afford to be careless now, major," a third voice said sharply. "Not when we're so close to making a contact who could actually be useful."

"You really think she's more than some crazy drifter?"

"I'd say the evidence points to it. Everyone else we've met is terrified of dragons. They huddle in these squalid little shanties like sheep waiting for the wolf. But this Carbon Jane, she walks around in the desert as if she owns it. That is how you described it, sergeant? Like she's got nothing to be afraid of."

There was a muted noise that sounded like agreement.

"And there's something else. When that boy in the saloon called her Carbon Jane, she made a joke of it. She denied being anywhere near Tucson. But what she didn't deny was killing two dragons."

"I'm not sure that proves anything," the commanding voice said. "Advertising sells."

"I did say evidence, not certainty. But my vote is that we allow her to guide us to Carlsbad, and take it from there."

"Assuming that's where she takes us."

"Sergeant?" That was the doctor's voice, waspish and questioning.

"I've been listening to gossip this afternoon, sir. From what I can gather, Carbon Jane is pretty much a mercenary, and there's no love lost between her and the people at Carlsbad."

"Which should make things easier for us. If she's for sale, we can buy her. And without loyalty or ties anywhere, it shouldn't be hard to persuade her to cooperate with us."

"It could also mean she'd sell us out. Let's make very sure our hardware is packed away, gentlemen. And this will be our last sitrep until we have definite news."

There was some rustling in the lean-to, and more of the odd clock-chiming sounds, mixed with low whistles and squeaks. But none of the strangers spoke again, and after a while Jane ghosted away.

For a long time she sat on the hillside above the refugee camp, running her fingers back and forth along her ruined knee as she smoked and watched the stars turn across the night-shrouded sky. 

Sell out Carlsbad, she thought. I might could do that.

**

_Jane could hear the screams from outside the cave entrance. It wasn't possible to recognize the voice—it didn't even sound like an animal, let alone a human. More like some of Mr. Wilbur's machinery grinding and squealing when something went wrong._

_But she knew._

_She ran heedlessly through the passages, bouncing off the walls, skidding and tumbling along the floor once, the skin on her forearms shredding without her even noticing._

_Her grandmother caught her before she reached the infirmary. Jane tried to force her way by, but the old woman stood her ground, holding onto her with all the strength left in her gnarled hands._

_"Don't you go near there!"_

_"Zeke's hurt," Jane whimpered, never even looking at her grandmother. Every fiber of her body flinched and shivered at each scream, even as she tried to drag herself out of the old woman's hold._

_"You ain't going in there. The boy's gone."_

_"He's alive!"_

_"Not for long." The old woman held her eyes fiercely. "Doc will see to that."_

_"No—"_

_Another scream cut her off, this one so raw and high she was sure no human throat could survive making it. With a sob, she pressed her hands over her ears and dropped to her knees, burying her face in her grandmother's skirt._

**

The dragon came just before noon on the third day.

To Jane's bleak surprise, the refugee group made good time. With so many riding double, she'd opted for a longer but easier return trail, skirting the badlands as much as possible. Ross and his men chivied everyone along mercilessly, keeping them quiet and moving steadily, driving stragglers ahead like so many reluctant dogies. Whatever their motives, the outlaws would probably get everyone to Carlsbad who could keep up the pace. It made Jane turn a deaf ear to their constant complaints about lack of drinking chicory and hot food.

The three deserters laid low, keeping to themselves and avoiding both Ross and Jane with the skill of native scouts. If she'd had energy to spare, Jane might have amused herself by stalking them to see just how far they'd go to avoid her; as it was, she decided that whatever they had in mind could wait. By the time she fell into her bedroll at night, she was too tired to spend more than a moment thinking about the conversation she'd overheard.

When we get to Carlsbad, she promised herself. After all, they reckon I'm useful. They won't vamoose until they've had their say.

With some discreet effort of her own, she found out the three were Sergeant Campbell, Major Bryce and Doctor Kettlewell—"not a healer doctor, he says, some kind of school teacher"—and claimed to be on a scouting expedition from a garrison near St. Louis. They rode out of the desert a few days before Jane herself had found the refugee camp, and decided to join the group when they heard there was a coyote coming.

Jane had her doubts about everything except the last. 

As she looked down at the refugee column, from her vantage point on the side of a butte, Jane could see Bryce and Kettlewell well off to the side, scrambling their horses down a slope toward a broken-down windmill, all that remained of another abandoned ranch. Campbell, who had been riding drag all morning, was bent over the stone trough at its base.

They'll be a might uncomfortable before we get to Carlsbad, Jane thought. The way they go through water, the Llano Estacado will be a shock.

She threw another look back, hit by a sudden urge to get people moving faster. The trail had narrowed, funneling the riders closely along the base of the mesa, and Jane felt hemmed in by the rock rising behind her. The air felt heavy, as if a giant lid was being pressed down on top of them.

The mustang's ears went flat, and he froze in place.

Jane felt it, the weight of the air suddenly sharply displaced, and then bearing down on her again. When she opened her mouth to scream a warning, it felt as if the lungs were being sucked out of her.

The dragon rose above the butte, the sweep of its wings creating a gale that drowned out human cries and the panicked whinnying of horses alike. Its scales were a pale lavender rimmed with silver and green, that sparkled in the light and darkened through purple into black along the underside and tail. It swooped across the line of riders and then spun around with one flick of its muscular tail to hover in front of them. Its head tilted until the neck stretched back grotesquely and then whipped forward, a ribbon of flame bursting from its mouth to lick out at the people and horses below. 

Everything in its path burned.

Jane pulled her rifle and took careful aim. Joints are weak spots, Wilbur Wright's voice whispered in her head. Break the strut and the wing collapses. 

Whether it was her own trembling, or that of the mustang, her first two shots went only through the wide lavender webbing stretched above her. Brilliant multi-colored sparks flew as the bullets struck the scales, but there was no other result.

There was no time for a third shot.

The dragon swooped again, turning its head slightly to send a dismissive thread of flame in Jane's direction, before it descended with open talons on the blackened earth below.

The instant the dragon's head turned, Jane hauled back on the reins, and the mustang pivoted, hindquarters bunching for a jump to safety. There was a momentary sensation of unbearable heat passing her, and then the horse began to scream.

He went mad underneath her, bucking wildly, throwing his body side to side. Jane kicked her feet free of the stirrups an instant before she lost her seat completely and flew through the air, landing hard and tumbling over and over. Her shout as her bad knee hit the ground and twisted was lost under the mustang's continuing high-pitched squeals. 

Her uncontrolled fall halted with a jarring thump as she rolled into a juniper bush. Dazed and half sick with pain, she tucked her head and hands into her duster and cowered under the branches, waiting for a second burst of dragon flame to find her.

Below the screaming, both human and animal, died away, replaced by sounds of feeding. The smell of burning meat and sage and juniper mingled with the peculiar metallic reek of dragons.

Jane held her hands over her ears, and tucked her body tighter under her duster, eyes squeezed shut.

Eventually the feeding noises faded. Rhythmic gusts of wind swept across the ground, pelting Jane with grit and bits of ash. 

When she finally dared to roll over and open her eyes, she could still make out the dragon in the distance, wings flashing lavender and green as it soared toward the horizon. 

Down below, everything was still.

A few feet from her, the mustang had come to a halt, rigid and shaking, coat flecked with foam, a high ugly sound coming from his open mouth. 

Jane dragged herself to her feet and hobbled over to him, hands outstretched. He flinched and shivered away from her, blowing and keening like a soul in torment. As his body turned, she could see a line of black char, nearly as wide as her hand, running across his rump from one haunch to the other. 

"No!" 

She covered her face with her hands, fingers digging into her hair as she screamed her denial. A desperate cowardly urge to run overcame her, and she whirled, only to tumble to the ground as her ruined knee gave way. She pounded her fists on the ground in rage and grief.

"Ma'am?" The sound of a voice brought her head up. "Ma'am, are you all right?"

Sergeant Campbell, his clothes filthy with dirt and ash, pulled himself up to stand beside her. He was white as a sheet, his hands trembling. "My God," he whispered. "Did you see that? It fried them all. Just like that." His mouth worked and he swallowed convulsively. "It ate them!"

She stared at him blankly.

"It ate them," he repeated, looking out across the plain to where the dragon was still visible in the distance. "What kind of a place is this?"

"It's a place with dragons," Jane said hoarsely, and hobbled over to the mustang. Muttering soothingly, she gripped the reins and turned him to face her. She stroked his nose and petted his neck, whispering reassuringly as she looked along his body. Dark eyes full of pain and fear watched her trustingly. 

Her hands shook as she pulled off the saddle and saddlebags, unbuckled the bridle and pulled it free.

"I'm sorry, boy," she said softly. "I didn't take care of you like I done ought. You've been good to me."

Sobbing, she drew the mare's leg and set it against the pulsing artery in the mustang's neck. 

"Wait, what are you—" Campbell's cry was drowned out as she pulled the trigger.

She staggered back as the horse fell, blood fountaining from the ragged wound. Blinded by tears, she had no warning when a fist struck the side of her head and knocked her to her knees.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Campbell's voice cracked on the words, and tears filled his eyes. "You shoot your own fucking horse? There aren't enough dead down there?"

Jane shook her head, trying to clear away the dizziness and pain. Campbell was staring at her and the dead mustang in horrified outrage, his hand flexing near his holstered gun. 

"Animals!" he raved. "Pack of crazy, filthy animals. Fucking all deserved to die!"

She straightened in one convulsive jerk and shoved the barrel of the mare's leg up hard under Campbell's chin. His eyes went so wide in surprise that she could have laughed if there had been anything left in her.

"Now, boy, you can tell me the truth. Where are you really from?"

Campbell gulped, his eyes wild. "What?" he choked out. "Are you crazy?"

"It's a simple question. Where are you from?" She increased the pressure on the gun slightly.

"Back east," he rasped. "St Louis. You know that."

"I don't think so. Think you've been spinning some tall tales. Time to find out just how tall."

Behind her, there was a quiet sound of a pistol cocking. 

"Miss Black, I need you to put down that gun and step away from Sergeant Campbell."

"Don't think I'll be doing that, major." 

With a silent prayer for strength, Jane shifted her weight and took a step back, so Campbell's body stood between her and Major Bryce and Dr. Kettlewell. Both men had their guns drawn, though Kettlewell held his like a rattlesnake he wasn't sure what to do with.

"You want something from me," she went on. "So, show your hands, gents." She pressed the mare's leg to the side of Campbell's head. "And please, no cock-and-bull story about St. Louis."

Bryce lowered his pistol and leaned forward on the saddle horn. "And why would you think we're not from St. Louis?"

Jane tapped Campbell lightly on the shoulder. "He doesn't know what dragon burn is."

"Things aren't this bad back east—" Kettlewell began.

"Bullshit!" Jane snapped. "The dragons wiped out the Army of the Confederacy down there in the Ozarks, so don't you try telling me you haven't seen dragon burn. Don't tell me there's anywhere you can come from where you don't know dragon burn."

"All right, say we're not from around here," Kettlewell said. "What then?"

"Doctor!" Bryce snarled.

"Major!" Kettlewell returned. "She isn't stupid." He looked at Jane with something like pride in his expression. "I told you we could use her. If we want her help, we'll have to tell her the truth."

"For God's sake, Kettlewell—"

"Major, she already knows we aren't who we claim to be. I expect if we lie too much more, she'll just shoot us and have done with it. It isn't as if there's anybody here to stop her."

"I want it on the record that I am providing classified information under protest."

"So noted." Kettlewell's voice was dry. "But it is my decision."

Bryce nodded grimly. "Put the gun down, Miss Black," he said again. "You're right, we do need something from you. But let's get well away from here to discuss it."

Jane stepped away from Campbell, and holstered the mare's leg. She half-expected either Bryce or Campbell to shoot her down, but neither man made a move toward their weapons.

With a sigh, she went back to the body of her mustang and ran a regretful affectionate hand down the long dusty nose. "Poor old boy," she said softly. "Rest well."

"Campbell may have over-reacted but he has a point. I still don't understand why you shot a perfectly good horse." Kettlewell came up behind her. "Is this some sort of superstition connected with the dragons?"

Jane turned. All three men were looking at her questioningly. 

"I'm not crazy," she said. She pressed her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then pulled her riding skirt up to expose her knee and the leg brace around it. Campbell gasped, and Kettlewell made a face of disgust. Only Bryce seemed unmoved, but Jane noted that his hand fell once more to his holstered weapon.

Kettlewell squatted down in front of her, eyes focused on the blackened flesh and bone exposed by the knee brace. 

"When did this happen?"

"Nigh on four years ago." Jane kept her voice steady with an effort.

"Dear God," Bryce said softly. Campbell made a sound as if he might be sick.

"Dragon burn doesn't heal." Kettlewell looked up at her. "That's what we didn't know?"

Jane nodded. "Dragon burn won't heal." She looked between the men, a tight little smile on her face, and let her skirt drop to cover the wound. "And the pain never gets better." She gestured at the body of the horse. "He'd have hurt for the rest of his life, always, just like the first minute it happened. Would have driven him loco. He was a good horse; he deserved better than that."

Kettlewell stood up and dusted his hands together briskly. "I was right, major." He gave Kettlewell a little grin of triumph. "This is more than we'd ever bargained for. And we do need Miss Black."

Bryce nodded abruptly. "Campbell, see if any horses have survived. Miss Black, let's get your gear together. Is there somewhere we can shelter near here?"

Jane thought for a moment. "'Bout ten miles west there's a cave. I was planning on holing up for the night there anyway. It's got a spring, too, so we'll be comfortable."

"What are the chances the dragon will come back?" Kettlewell said, looking up and around nervously.

She shrugged. "Might not see one for another two weeks, might get burned in five minutes. No way to tell."

Kettlewell shuddered. "And you just ride out into this?"

Jane shrugged again.

"Found one, sir!" 

Campbell appeared, leading a scrawny black gelding that had belonged to one of the outlaws. He was wild-eyed and trembling, great patches of sweat on his neck and withers, but unhurt. 

Jane bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood. Bending down, she gathered together what remained of her life.

**

_"Well, howdy there, Jane. Good to see you again."_

_"Been some time, Frank. I hear you're a marshal now."_

_"Folks outside need law. There's still towns trying to make a go of it outside, and they can't be left to fend for themselves."_

_"I guess you like to think you're doing some good."_

_"Look, I know you blame me for what happened to Zeke—"_

_"No. I blame the dragons for what happened to Zeke. I blame you for what happened to me."_

_"And I blame Wilbur Wright. Why you had to go and listen to that old fool . . ."_

_"He's willing to fight dragons. That's more than most will do."_

_"You like that, don't you? You know what they're calling you out in the badlands? Carbon Jane. Like you can go up against a dragon."_

_"How do you know I can't?"_

_"You're still alive, ain't you? More than I can say for Zeke."_

**

They saw no other living thing on the ride to the cave. If any of the outlaws had survived, they'd scattered to the winds. None of the townsfolk had escaped the dragon.

Kettlewell insisted on going back to examine the scorched earth. From a distance, Jane watched him scrape up soil in several places and seal it into small bottles that he stowed in his saddlebags. He also held up a palm-sized box and pointed it all along the dragon burn, and at the surrounding hills.

"Pretend you don't see that," Bryce advised dryly.

Jane waited upwind of the burn, unwilling to go anywhere the blackened remnants. Her new horse was fractious with nerves, and she used the excuse of controlling him to ride well away from the sight and smell of the dragon attack. She felt weak and queasy, her leg so painful she was barely able to keep it in the stirrup. 

What's it say about me, that I care more about losing my horse than any of those folks back there, she wondered. Carbon Jane. Didn't earn that name today.

When the soldiers finally joined her, she led them away without another word. Campbell looked as pale as she felt, and Bryce had a grim set to his mouth that hadn't been there before. Only Kettlewell seemed consumed by curiosity, and he peppered her with questions until she snarled at him to shut his mouth.

After that, no one spoke until they were finished setting up camp in the cave. Unsurprisingly, it was Kettlewell who stepped forward, looking very much like a preacher ready to give a much-polished sermon.

"You're quite correct in your suspicions, Miss Black. We don't come from back east. In fact, we don't even come from this world." Kettlewell paused and looked at her expectantly.

"You're not telling me you come from the moon, are you?" Jane laughed harshly.

"No, no, it's a little more tricky than that. We come from another Earth. An Earth very much like this one, except that we have no dragons. Our civilization has never had to cope with them, and we've advanced, far more than you can imagine."

"No dragons?" Jane said. "Another Earth?"

"Imagine a book." Kettlewell paused. "You can read?" 

"Gram taught me letters. Mr. Wilbur taught me ciphering and such."

"Well, then, imagine a book. Somebody has written on every page. The story is nearly always the same one, but each page a little bit different. Say on page ten, there's a girl named Jane, but on page eleven, her name is Ann, and on page sixteen her name is Louise. Follow me?" Jane nodded. "Now imagine that we can move from story to story in that book. On this page, we meet you, a girl named Jane. If we'd gone to another page, we'd have met Ann, or Louise. On another page, Jane might be dead, or not yet born."

"So on my page in the story, we have dragons. On your page in the story, there ain't none. That right?"

"Exactly!" Kettlewell clapped his hands together triumphantly.

"Do you have flying machines?" Jane asked eagerly.

Kettlewell looked startled. "Yes, as a matter of fact we do. Plenty of them, all kinds and sizes—why would you even think of a flying machine?" he demanded.

"Mr. Wilbur built a flying machine. He figured if we could fly, we could take on the dragons in the air."

"Who's this Mr. Wilbur?" Bryce said.

"Mr. Wilbur Wright," Jane said proudly. "He was an inventor. He built all kinds of things, but what he always worked on was his flying machine."

"Dear God." Bryce lowered his head into his hands. "I don't suppose he had a brother named Orville?" 

Jane's head jerked up. "How did you know that?"

Bryce sighed deeply. "In our world, Wilbur and Orville Wright built flying machines too. The Wright brothers are famous."

"In this world, they died." Jane looked down, unwilling to let them see her tears.

There was a long moment of silence while the men glanced at each other uneasily. Finally, Jane wiped her eyes and looked up.

"So why did you come here?"

Kettlewell puffed up slightly. "We've come here to find dragon eggs. We hope to take them back with us to our world for research."

Jane stared at him. "Am I understanding you: You don't have dragons where you come from. And you want to take them _back_?"

Kettlewell nodded.

"You're insane," she said flatly. "Gone plumb loco."

Bryce shook his head. "Back home, our country is facing major conflict with terrorists; people who attack by stealth and commit terrible crimes against civilians. We have to find a way to combat them that doesn't require us to get involved in armed conflict in more countries than we can manage. We need a weapon that will strike the same kind of fear into them as they are trying to strike into us."

"You're insane," she repeated. "You think you can control them? You think dragons care who's right and who's wrong in anything? They will cook you alive and eat you."

"We have a secure research facility," Kettlewell said impatiently. "We have . . . machines and equipment you can't even imagine. We'll take the eggs back, breed the dragons to be more manageable, trainable."

Jane shook her head slowly. "Secure? How? Dragon fire melts metal—copper, nickel, steel, anything. It'll melt rock if the dragon works at it. There's places I've seen where boulders look like butter melted in the sun."

"Kettlewell's right," Bryce said. "We don't need to rely just on stone or metal. We have ways we don't even know the words to explain to you."

"But we need help," Kettlewell broke in urgently. "None of it will happen if we can't find dragon eggs. If you can take us to a nest, you could name your price. Gold, weapons, ammunition, food—you name it, we could get it for you." He gave her leg an assessing glance. "We might even be able to do something for your leg. I can't make any promises, because you're right—nobody in our world has ever seen anything like that. But we might at least be able to get you something for the pain."

"Dragon eggs," Jane said softly. Her gaze went past Bryce and Kettlewell out to the desert. 

"Can you do it?" Kettlewell asked almost diffidently. "Do you know where we could find dragon eggs?"

"There's a place I've heard tell of," she said finally. "It's a few days ride from here, out across the Llano Estacado. Won't be easy getting there."

"Can you take us there?" Bryce demanded. "Do we need to go to Carlsbad first?"

"It's hard country. Not much water or shelter. If you gents have enough sand in your craws, I reckon we'll make it."

The two men exchanged a long look. 

"Fair enough," Bryce said. "We've come this far, we'll risk it. You take us there, and like Dr. Kettlewell said, you can name your price."

She steepled her hands under her chin. "I'll name it now, gents. Take me back with you."

"Take—you mean back to our side?" 

Jane nodded.

"I'm sorry, Miss Black, but that's not possible," Bryce said firmly. "Our superiors have made it absolutely clear that we can't reveal ourselves over here. If you hadn't caught out Sergeant Campbell, we'd most likely have come and gone without anybody ever have known we'd been here. We sure as hell couldn't take the risk of letting you come back with us."

"But you've got no problem bringing over dragons?" Jane laughed dryly. "That's my price. Take it or leave it."

Bryce opened his mouth to protest again, but Kettlewell put a hand on his arm. "Why don't we give it a try, major?"

"Are you crazy? We can't just bring some eighteenth century throwback across into the most highly guarded military complex in the world. We'd all be court-martialed!"

"I'm not saying just drop her in without any warning." Kettlewell gave Bryce an exasperated look, then turned to Jane. "We can contact our command, though it'll take a bit of doing. We'll explain the situation, ask permission to bring you back with us. If they say no—" He shrugged. "The major is right, it's not our decision to make.

"Though I'm not sure what your issue is," he threw at Bryce. "She knows how to travel safely in the desert, she knows how to find dragon eggs. You're worried about how to sell her to the brass? Tell her she's a local dragon expert who's agreed to work with us. They'll jump on it." Kettlewell smiled cynically. "She wouldn't be the first dubious local asset they've taken on."

"And what if she turns out to have an agenda of her own?"

"I do," Jane interrupted. "I want my leg back. You get one of your medicine men to heal up my leg, and I'll get you all the dragon eggs you'll ever need."

"Goddammit!" Bryce ran his hands through his cropped hair. "All right, Miss Black. We'll contact home and ask. But for that, we need some privacy." He grinned wolfishly. "Can't have you knowing all our secrets."

Jane rose, for once not bothering to hide the effort it took. "In that case, gents, I'll be turning in. Here's hoping there's good news come morning."

**

_The biplane went down in a long shaky spiral, trailing flame as it spun lower and lower toward its death._

_It wasn't really a biplane any longer: dragon fire had left it little more than a truncated stub with smoking wings. Only the skill of the pilot kept it in the air, and even that wasn't enough in the end. The remnants of the right wing buckled under the strain, and the entire plane pitched sideways and went into a shallow uncontrolled dive._

_Wilbur Wright's flying machine returned to the earth with a final broken sound, as cloth and wood crumpled and splintered on impact, bits of fuselage scattering in all directions._

_In the gunner's seat, Jane clawed and pounded at the shattered cockpit door, shrieking with pain. Her left leg was on fire, agony like nothing she'd ever felt in her life. Nothing existed for her except the raw burn on her knee, and she hammered frantically at the door, throwing her upper body at it in a frenzy to escape. When the hinges finally gave way she half fell out onto the sand, dragging herself along on her arms, still screaming uncontrollably. The pain was beyond description, beyond endurance._

_Twisting, rolling, beating at her leg with her hands in a futile effort to make the pain stop, she finally was brought to a halt when her thrashing brought her up against a boulder forcefully enough to knock the air from her lungs. She lay gasping, trying to get in air, feeling an odd awareness return to her body._

_She wasn't on fire._

_Her leg hurt worse than anything she'd ever felt, but it was only her leg. Only her knee. She pulled herself into a half-sitting position and looked down at her dungarees. On the left knee was a neat hole, less than half the size of her palm. The cloth around it was more than charred; it was melted, as if the heat had been so intense it had passed beyond mere burning._

_Dragon burn._

_Another scream escaped her, this one of utter revulsion._

_Her hands shook so badly she could barely get the knife out of her boot, and she slashed her thumb to the bone as she unfolded it. She hacked and sawed at the pant leg until she'd sliced away enough to see what lay beneath. With a cry, she dropped the knife and vomited into the dirt._

_Fused blackened flesh, bone showing through the hole, the heat, the terrible heat and burning—she vomited again and again and then fell back, shivering violently and nearly unconscious._

_Dragon burn never healed._

_It was a faint rattling of metal that finally roused her. She looked up groggily, to see the front of the flying machine shaking oddly. From it came more rattling of metal, and guttural moaning._

_In horror, Jane remembered she was not alone. "Mr. Wilbur?" Her voice was hoarse and weak. "Mr. Wilbur?"_

_There was a thump, and a faint wet croaking noise._

_Jane looked down at the ruin of her leg. Forced herself to see, rather than feel. The entire leg still felt on fire, all the way past her hip. The knee was damaged beyond any hope of repair. But the actual wound was not large. The bones and muscles in her leg would still function. The intense heat had cauterized the wound, so she was not losing blood._

_She set her hands against the boulder beside her, and tried to lever herself to her feet. The attempt tore another scream from her, but she persisted, dragging herself upright with little cries and whimpers. Her left leg would scarcely take any weight, but she forced herself into a shambling, crouching stumble that kept her upright until she reached the ruin of the flying machine._

_"Mr. Wilbur?"_

_Now there was only silence._

_With a groan of pure agony, Jane gripped the broken wing struts and hauled herself up onto the remnant of the wing. She floundered for a moment, then managed to drag herself up far enough to look into the cockpit._

_The dragon fire had missed the pilot. Instead, Wilbur Wright had been impaled through the chest and stomach by broken bits of wood and machinery._

_"Mr. Wilbur?" Jane reached down with one hand, a feeling of helpless grief washing through her that was nearly worse than the pain._

_His eyes fluttered open. "Miss Jane?" Blood frothed on his lips. "Where's . . . dragon?" he gasped._

_Jane forced back a sob. "I think I shot it. I couldn't rightly tell, but it only flamed us the once."_

_With an effort, Wilbur rolled his head to look around him at the smoldering ruins of the flying machine. "Icarus," he murmured. "Should have called you Icarus."_

_"Mr. Wilbur?"_

_"Were . . . meant to fly?" More blood bubbled up. "Hubris?"_

_"Mr. Wilbur!"_

_He looked up at Jane as if seeing her for the first time. "Miss Jane, how badly . . . hurt?_

_Jane clenched her hands together until she could feel the knuckles crack. "My leg," she choked out. "It burned my leg."_

_Wilbur tried to pull himself up, but fell back with a groan. "I'm so sorry. I thought we could do it." His voice weakened further. "Icarus." Despite the weakness there was no mistaking the dreadful bitterness in his voice._

_Jane had seen enough men die to know there was nothing she could do, even if she'd had the strength. She couldn't move Wilbur—she'd be lucky if she could move herself. She rested her hand on his shoulder, wiped the blood from his lips with a scrap of cloth. There was no other comfort she could give._

_Though it seems as though she crouched on the wing for hours, listening to Wilbur's breath slowing as he choked on his own blood, it couldn't have been even fifteen minutes._

_He looked past her at the end, unaware of her tears dripping down onto his body._

_"We've lost the sky," he whispered, eyes fixed on the bright blue dome above them. "We've lost the sky."_

**

Four days hard riding through the unrelenting heat wore them all to the bone.

On the fifth morning, as soon as there was enough light to make out the trail, Jane rousted her companions up and onto their horses, overriding any protest about the need for food.

"The heat will get worse before it gets better, gents. We'll eat our biscuits and jerky in the saddle if you've a mind to. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting through here pronto."

By mid-morning, the Llano Estacado was a furnace. Even Jane, used to riding the desert in all weather, felt herself wilting in the searing heat. Her three companions drank steadily from their canteens, and Kettlewell cursed the heat with monotonous regularity.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Campbell demanded, as he rode up beside her, mopping the sweat from his face.

"I'm used to it." Jane jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Doc's language bothers me a sight more."

Campbell gave her a long thoughtful look. "Something tells me you've heard worse."

"Have, and will." 

When she saw the slight rise ahead of her that told her they were close to their destination, she kicked the gelding into a slow trot. The three outsiders didn't even notice at first, and it gave her a few moments when there were no eyes immediately on her. She reached under her duster to undo the snap on her holster, and then slowed the horse again. There was no point in pushing the gelding any faster when the end of the trail was in sight. 

She reined in on the edge of the escarpment, waiting for her companions to catch up, her eyes scouring the horizon. Empty blue in all directions, not even a buzzard circling as far as she could see. 

We lost the sky, she thought. 

The sounds of disbelief she heard as Campbell, Bryce and Kettlewell rode up and pulled to a halt made her wonder just how they saw what was below.

At the bottom of the escarpment, a huge hollow had been carved out of the land. The multi-hued glaze of molten sand made it look like an enormous bowl, crafted for some impossible giant to drink out of. There was a beauty to it, of color and texture, but a beauty with every trace of life leached from it.

"What is this place?" Kettlewell said softly. "What happened here?"

"This looks familiar," Campbell said, looking back and forth from the escarpment to the devastated land below. "I've been here—it looks like—"

"Roswell," Jane said. "There used to be a town here called Roswell."

Kettlewell laughed, a wild high sound that had more than a little hysteria in it. "Don't tell me, you have little greys here too?"

The question made no sense, but Jane felt a smile twitch on her face at his tone. "No, doc. Just dragons."

Kettlewell urged his horse closer to the edge of the drop, eyes avid as he peered down into the bowl. "That's a dragon nest? There's eggs down there?"

"Nope." Jane eased the gelding back slightly so she had all three men in her sights. "That's where the dragons came from."

As one, the three turned to look at her. Jane swept her duster back and drew her mare's leg from its holster.

It was Campbell who caught on, driving his heels into his horse even as he clawed for his weapon, bellowing,

"Ambush! Major, look out, she's—"

The blast from the mare's leg blew him out of the saddle.

Major Bryce was faster than she'd expected, dropping from his horse and dodging for cover behind the rocks. Her second shot from the mare's leg missed. Cursing, she dropped the empty gun and pulled the rifle from its scabbard. She got off two shots before he disappeared, and a howl of pain told her at least one had hit home.

She turned to look for Kettlewell, to find him still on his horse, exactly where he'd been before, an expression of utter disbelief on his face. She aimed the rifle at him.

"Wait! Waitwaitwait—what are you doing?" he screamed, flailing his hands wildly in front of him, as if expecting them to shield him from bullets. "What are you doing?"

Jane gestured slightly with the rifle barrel, to the drop-off and what lay below it. "Do you know what this place is?"

"How could I possibly know that?" he whimpered. "Whatever happened down there, _we're not from here_!"

Jane looked down at the maelstrom of colors. "This is where my grandpap brought the dragons through."

"Brought them through? Through what?"

"Dragons don't belong here." She cut his babbling off. "Dragons aren't from here. Do you really think humans could live here if we'd always had dragons?"

"You mean—they come from some other country? Some other continent?" The terror and confusion on his face was faded, replaced by the usual intense curiosity. For a moment it reminded her of Wilbur Wright, and she winced with pain.

"Some other world." She laughed out loud at the dumbfounded expression on his face. "For a man who claims to have some book learning, you sure don't know people, do you, doc? You didn't wonder why it was so easy for you to get me to believe you?"

"I assumed you're a sensible woman who recognized the truth when you heard it."

"What I am is a woman who's heard it before. I know there's these other worlds like ours only different. I know because that's where dragons come from."

"That isn't possible," Kettlewell said scornfully. "Your technology isn't even close to what you'd need to open a trans-cosmic portal. You're barely above bone-chewing savages."

"Might be, might not. Maybe the dragons did it themselves somehow. All I know is, eighty years ago my grandpap did something, right in this spot, and the dragons started coming through.

"And our world went to hell."

"But then why are you doing this?" He gestured to Campbell's body sprawled on the rocks. "Killing us won't do anything to stop your dragons."

"So you can't do to your world what my grandpap did to this one."

Kettlewell gawped at her. "You've murdered my men out of . . . of . . . altruism?"

Jane shrugged. "Call it what you want. You know what I heard when I was a little girl? There used to be trains running right across this country, all the way from New York to San Francisco. You could eat steak and bread in the dining car." Her voice trailed away. "Do you know, doc, I've never seen a train? I know what they're supposed to be, from listening to Mr. Wilbur and such, but I've never seen a train."

"We could help you get it back," Kettlewell said urgently. "If we could study dragons back home, we could find ways to fight them, too. We could help rebuild this world. It doesn't have to be like this!"

"I bet that's what grandpap thought. Whatever he did, he thought it was going to be a _help_." She spat the last word at him. "When people realized what he'd done, they dragged him out and staked him for the dragons. It was no more than he deserved." She steadied the rifle on Kettlewell. "I'm going to be more merciful than they were."

The shot took her from behind, driving her forward out of the saddle, a terrible pain blooming through her back and side. She felt herself falling, grabbed at the gelding's neck but lost her grip and hit the ground hard. A second shot boomed, and the gelding squealed and staggered, one hoof catching her hard in the back and driving her face-down into the sand.

In the distance, she heard voices, but was unable to make out the sense of the words.

Breathe, she thought, clenching her hands around the rifle. Hold on. 

The pain in her side was agonizing, but not worse than her knee. She could manage if she got the chance.

Four shots left.

"She's insane!" Kettlewell's voice, suddenly clear and right above her. "She didn't want us to take dragons back! Can you believe it, major?"

"Shut up, doctor." That was Major Bryce, and he sounded hurt. Jane felt a small savage swell of satisfaction. Hurt people moved slowly, thought less clearly. 

"No, no, you don't understand. Did you hear her? If she's not completely delusional, which might be the case, after all, but if not, then dragons don't come from this dimension. We could find—"

"Kettlewell, you think you could save the geekgasms? We need to get out of here. Campbell's dead, I'm hurt, and the longer we sit up here in plain sight, the more I'm thinking smorgasbord, okay? That bitch walked us into one trap today, and that's all I'm good for."

"We can't just leave," Kettlewell said, sounding almost as horrified as when Jane held the rifle on him. "This place, my God, we could find the key to the whole dragon question _right here_."

"And it will still be here after I've stopped bleeding to death. Now get out your gizmo, and I'll get what's left of Campbell. Jesus, I'm going to have to write his wife, and what do I tell her? You got an answer for me, huh? Killed by some crazy female gunfighter in an alternate universe?"

"What about her?" Jane felt a boot in her side. "I think she might be alive."

"She won't be for long." There was a savage satisfaction in Bryce's voice too, and Jane felt a certain unwilling kinship.

"We could still take her back with us." Kettlewell said urgently.

"Now you're the one who's crazy."

"No, listen, major, think about it. We take her back, we heal her, we fix her leg. Have you really looked at that mess? No wonder Campbell was spooked, it's disgusting. Anyway, we fix her, and then she owes us. That's a big deal in these primitive societies, right? Blood debt and that kind of crap?"

"Assuming she doesn't kill us all first." Major Bryce's voice held a grudging respect. "I have a feeling that in a few years I might want to kill anybody who brought dragons to Earth myself." Over Kettlewell's outraged sputter, Bryce said harshly, "No. Let her die. Safer for everybody."

As she heard the sound of footsteps moving away from her, Jane braced herself and rolled to her side. Kettlewell and Bryce were standing a few feet away from her. Kettlewell had some sort of a boxy instrument in his hands, and as she watched, buttons on it began to glow green and orange. Bryce was hobbling toward Campbell's body, one hand holding a wad of bloodstained cloth against his thigh.

She lifted the rifle with a groan. Bryce spun around, but he was too late. Her shot went clean through his chest and he fell without a sound. Kettlewell had time for one scream before her second shot blew his head off.

Jane let the rifle drop and sank down. She felt cold and dizzy and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep under the sun.

A high-pitched chirping noise behind her startled her out of her torpor. The instrument Kettlewell had been using was making the sound, several small lights on the flat upper surface flashing in time. She stared at it without comprehension for a moment, and then remembered Major Bryce's words. Get out your gizmo. Somehow this thing was what they would have used to return to their home. With a snarl, she lunged at the box and managed to get hold of it with shaking fingers. With all her remaining strength, she lifted the box up and smashed it against the ground, slamming the butt of the rifle down on it until it was nothing but shards of glass and bits of colored wire and metal. 

Then she collapsed beside the wreckage, too weak and dizzy to remain upright any longer. She could feel the heavy slick wetness of blood running down her side and flank, and knew she didn't have much longer. Just for a moment Jane felt a bitter stab of regret for the contraption she'd destroyed. She had no doubt that if she'd used it to go to wherever Kettlewell and his men had come from, nobody would have questioned what she'd done, as long as they thought she could bring them dragon eggs.

She could have lived, maybe even had her leg healed, if Kettlewell hadn't been lying about their medicine men.

Lived. 

In the shadow of dragon wings.

Jane pulled handful of shells from her duster pocket, cursing as they slid through her bloody fingers to scatter onto the dusty ground around her. With a groan, she broke open the mare's leg, the effort sending such a wave of pain through her ruined side that she shrieked, everything turning grey around her.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there, whimpering miserably, but when she came aware again, she was slumped on her side on the ground, the mare's leg still clutched in one hand. With agonizing slowness she dragged her free hand through the pool of blood around her, managing to find a couple of the scattered shotgun shells. It took the last of her strength to fumble them into the breech and force the gun closed again.

She lost track of time, feeling herself grow slowly colder even as the rock around her heated up under the sunshine. She could feel the blood drying, becoming tacky on her clothes, on her hands, in her hair, and was vaguely surprised that there had been so much inside her. At least the coldness was easing the pain.

She laughed softly, a throaty wet sound. For the first time in nearly four years, her knee didn't hurt.

Maybe dying was worth it.

Over the slowing, fading sound of her heartbeat, Jane thought she could hear something else.

Finally.

She rolled over to look up at the sky, holding the mare's leg firmly against her chest, cocked and ready. 

And waited for the sound of wings. 

 

The End


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome title page art by sleepwalker1015

[](http://s866.beta.photobucket.com/user/nahank/media/title_zps195f5e86.png.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second piece of art by sleepwalker1015.

and the html coding for it:  
[](http://s866.beta.photobucket.com/user/nahank/media/img178_zps40f591ba.jpg.html)


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